Gravity
by walked-into-the-sky
Summary: Perhaps, he realizes, it hadn't been impulsive. Perhaps, after over two centuries, he'd forgotten what it is to feel human. Carlisle/Esme. One Shot.


Because if I'm going to break my promise to myself and write Twilight fanfiction, it's going to be Carlisle. Like, totally.

Summary: Perhaps, he realized, it hadn't been impulsive. Perhaps, after two centuries, he'd forgotten what it was to feel human. Carlisle/Esme.

BTWz, I've never been to Paris. I'm going off what one of my friends (who went this summer, that BITCH) told me. And stuff.

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or the brilliant song _Gravity_ by Sara Bareilles, from which the title was plucked.

_Gravity_

They're standing on a bridge that crosses the Seine, the sun is setting violently over Paris, and she's beautiful, radiant, everything.

Carlisle hangs back, watching her as she leans forward, her slender fingers gripping the top of the thick stone wall that runs along the side of the bridge, her long tan overcoat brushing against her bare calves and her long, chestnut hair falling just _so_ over her shoulders. It hadn't been a mistake, he decides, bringing her here. Between Edward and his flighty behavior and Carlisle's own distance, she'd needed some sort of vacation. He hasn't seen her look this _at peace_ in months.

This, of course, is his fault. All of it is. She just, for some obscure, inexplicable reason, doesn't blame him for it.

"Carlisle," she says softly, folding her arms on top of the wall and he can see from his partial view of her profile that her lips are curving upwards into the softest of smiles, "Come here. Look at the river."

Part of him wants to stay where he is, simply because he's been steadfast in his distance and, as compelled as he'd felt to help her, he has no intention of letting this trip turn into something more than it is. Which is a friend, who just happened to be responsible for every bad thing in her life, helping a friend. But she's beckoning now, her small fingers drawing him in, and despite himself, his feet are carrying him forward. He finally makes himself stop directly beside her, careful to keep feet between them; but still, her scent is already clouding his senses.

_Flowers. Spices. Fresh baked bread, newly fallen leaves, the ocean…_a hundred others he cannot hope to place. All of it creating an essence, a presence that, despite having only been in his life for two years, he's come to depend on far too much. Esme lets out a breathy little laugh and he looks and sees the bright, almost desperate sunset reflected in the wide, winding river stretched out before them.

"It's beautiful," she tells him and he thinks, _yes, Esme, you are._

It'd been impulse, what had pushed him to do what he had done two years ago in the Ashland Hospital morgue. He'd smelled her, recognized her immediately, that pretty, petite teenage girl from Columbus with the broken leg and the charming, shy smile. And he hadn't thought, he'd _felt_ and those emotions had driven him across the room, had made him rip off the sheet and, with barely a glance at the numerous broken bones, the bruises, the cuts, the odd angle her waist had been twisted into, had propelled him forward and had sunk his teeth into her neck.

Never, in nearly three hundred years, had it been so difficult for him to _stop._

He's still having trouble. He's never been more drawn to a scent in his entire life and even now, the urge to touch her, to taste her, is overwhelming. As impossible as it seems, he wants that taste even more now that she's—

Well, now that she's like him.

"Carlisle," she says and he can't ignore the concern in her voice. Still, as tempting as it is, he keeps his eyes on the river rather than look at her again, "Carlisle," she repeats and suddenly her hand is covering his.

Heat, something so rare for a vampire, explodes from the contact, pulsing almost violently throughout his body and stubbornly refusing to be ignored. The sensation wasn't new to him, he'd felt it twice before, once in Columbus, as he set her leg and once in the Ashland morgue as he battled with himself and drank that small, addicting amount of her blood. Carlisle swallows hard and forces himself to stay still. He may not recognize it, this feeling, but he's lived long enough to know it has the potential to turn dangerous.

"Carlisle," Esme is holding his hand lightly, tentatively now, "What is it? What's wrong?"

He wants to say nothing. He wants to tell her he's so sorry, that he can't be close to her like this. He wants to confess to how long he's wanted her, how long he's taken small doses of her scent, of how addicted he's become. But most of all, he wants to tell her that, as terrible as it sounds and as guilty as he's felt every time he's looked at her, he doesn't regret having her at his side, as removed as they are, as removed as _he's_ made them. Because there are things that he doesn't understand, things that run deeper than impulse, and as hard as he tries, he can't ignore them, not anymore.

He turns, his body so bloody _aware_, every inch of his skin humming in what seems to be anticipation. Esme looks up at him, amber eyes wide and innocent and _he doesn't even know_ and it's like his stomach is in his throat. And then, for the second time in his life, his body begins to operate outside of what his mind wants. His hands lift, cup the sides of her small, beautiful round face, and he's leaning forwards and she's not breathing and looks completely dumbstruck. And this, _this_ isn't exactly the worst feeling in the world.

He's kissing her.

At first, it's this small, comforting warmth, this slight pressure of lips against his own, and, even with as much as he's feeling, it's almost simple. But then she's reacting, she's pushing back, and the smoldering is back and his skin is almost vibrating with _everything_. Esme is holding his face now and somehow, though he's not sure when, his hands find their way to her waist. His eyes are closed, she's sighing into his mouth and the sky is falling into the purples and blues and stars of night. Her fingers wind their way into his hair and he pulls back just a bit, just to _see_.

She smiles that same, shy smile he'd been so fascinated by twelve years ago and says his name.

And this, Carlisle realizes, is not something a monster like him should feel. This is not what vampires were made for. He smiles back and it almost feels as if his heart is beating again after almost three centuries of dormancy.

"I've been so in love with you for so long, Carlisle," she whispers and he can't help it, he kisses her again just because he _can._

"Esme," he says, pulling her against him and laughing, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

This, Carlisle understands, is what it is to feel human.

-Fin-

A/N: God, I'm such a disgusting sap. But I can't help it. Carlisle's too hot, man, he clouds my usually angsty muse and makes me write fluff. So. Read and review. Kthnksbye.


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